


Stubborn

by CallmeG



Series: The Peaky Files [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Retching, Sick Tommy Shelby, Sickfic, Vomit, Vomiting, emeto, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21757111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallmeG/pseuds/CallmeG
Summary: Thomas Shelby, the stubborn asshole he is, refuses to admit to his illness.Good thing he has a good family- sometimes- and a lover to stop the nonsense.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader
Series: The Peaky Files [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568089
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	Stubborn

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to keep this relatively gender-neutral, since I feel like a lot of works out there are for females only and while that’s great for me, as a cisgender, heterosexual female, it’s not great for those who aren’t cisgender, female heterosexuals. So! I’m doing my best to keep this gender-neutral, but if I slip up please feel free to let me know! I want to start keeping a majority of my works gender-neutral to help everyone feel more included in that fandom life.  
> Set in season one because- well, shit, I’m a lazy fuck and it’s a really obvious problem when I write. Tommy Shelby, reader, and- well, it appears Tommy has a bit of a stomach ache.

The morning sunlight streaming into Tommy’s room was a blessing and a curse; a blessing as it lit up the room, but a curse for the exact same reason. Your head lifted from the pillow, realising you had a head resting on your chest. A glance down told you it was just Tommy; _your_ Tommy. His breathing was quiet, soft, and gentle against your collarbone. His forehead was warm against your bare skin and you lifted a hand to cup it. That was when he began to stir; the vulnerability of his rest was interrupted and he lifted his head just enough to reach for his pocket watch sitting on the table beside the bed. He groaned, falling back against you.

“Good morning,” you murmured. He frowned, trying to shift off your body.

“Is it, though?”

“Yes, I think so. You’ve been sleeping for nearly eight hours now-“

“-doesn’t feel like it.”

Despite the full night’s rest, the bags under Tommy’s eyes were dark and deep, and the blue hues of his eyes were darker than usual.

“Are you okay?” You asked, brushing a hand through his hair. He nodded, reaching again for the bedside table. You slipped out from under him to lie on the side of the bed against the wall, closing your eyes as you felt him slip off the bed and begin to dress. His usual morning cigarette was lit and you could smell the smoke on his breath when he leaned down to kiss you.

“See you tonight, love.”

Just like that he was disappearing out the bedroom door and down the stairs.

When you rose Polly was sitting in the kitchen, watching Finn while he was playing outside. She looked up and greeted you with a nod, gesturing toward the sacred double doors.

“Tommy hasn’t eaten, but he’s working on the books.”

You hummed, walking over to ruffle Finn’s hair before you joined your boyfriend’s aunt at the table.

“He was warm to the touch this morning; he wasn’t awake early either.”

“Well; you’ll just have to keep an eye on him.”

Polly stood, leaning out the front door to yell for Finn.

“Let’s go, Finn! It’s time for your lessons!”

As usual keeping watch on Tommy was near to impossible; he was an incredibly busy man, between making deals, not getting his face blown off, and agreeing to all sorts of illegal things, he also had the day to day things like managing books if Arthur didn’t. It was quite the contrast to that morning, curled up in bed with you. His demeanor changed quite rapidly the second he left the bedroom, and you had to admit you kind of found it hot.

Tommy dashed out of the bullpen again and you looked to Arthur in the office but he was busy yelling at someone. You closed the books you’d been working on and subtly followed Tommy into the main part of the house where he wandered upstairs.

“Tommy?”

He froze at his bedroom door, turning to look at you. He sniffed, eyes red-rimmed, and your face fell. His knees became weak, and he stuttered.

“I think I should- I think I should sit down.”

You reached him just in time to wrap an arm under his shoulders, supporting him to the bed. Tommy sat and immediately rested his head in his hands. You sat beside him, moving a hand slowly over his back.

“What is it?”

“I just- I felt ill for a moment like I was going to be sick.”

“Your stomach hurts?” You asked, Tommy clarifying with a nod. He winced suddenly, bending in half to deal with the cramp in his stomach. You frowned, pushing his hair off his forehead.

“I think you should lie down. I’ll get you some soup and you can rest.”

Tommy shook his head, straightening out when the pain dissolved.

“I’m okay; just a spell. I should get back to work.”

Before you could do anything further he stood and went back downstairs. You sighed, glancing at the bed wistfully.

If only you’d realised sooner.

“[y/n]. It’s Tommy”

John appeared beside your desk and you fixed him with a glare. He huffed.

“Don’t look at me like that. Tommy’s in the office, he just got sick down his front and all over Arthur.”

You snorted, before the worry settled in and you got up from your chair, “Thanks, John. Would you mind taking over here for a bit while I investigate?”

“That’s not a problem.”

John took your seat and you rushed into the office, stuttering at the sight. Half of you wanted to laugh, the other half wanted to rush Tommy straight upstairs so he could do his usual sick routine; groan, dry heave, retch, groan, sleep, ask for a smoke, repeat. I wish I was joking.

“Oh, Tom.”

You placed a hand on his back, taking the metal bin Arthur had been holding. He excused himself and disappeared to change, leaving just you and Tommy in the office. The bin held half-digested last night’s dinner and you ran a hand down the back of your lover’s neck, stopping at the base to gently press your thumb there. As usual, his reaction was to shudder, and you began to massage there while you felt his fever again.

“You’re burning up. I’m drawing the line since you clearly can’t do it yourself.”

“I-“

He lost all colour in his face again and you didn’t hesitate to slide the bin under his chin, moving your free hand to rub circles on his back.

“You have to breathe. Take it real slow; in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

His entire body began to tremble and you pressed a kiss to his temple, coaxing him over the bin.

“I can’t,” he choked out. You frowned, about to protest, when he leaned back to rest against your shoulder.

“I can’t here; not with everyone watchin’, there’s no way they’ll respect me after this.”

You hated to admit it, but Tommy had a point. Tommy Shelby was one of the most feared men in Birmingham, so seeing him attempt to retch his insides up probably wasn’t the most dominating display.

“Okay, okay. Let’s go to our room. Can you wait until then?”

Tommy nodded and you slipped an arm around his waist, just letting him hold you for a moment even if it was more for his comfort than yours. As you made your way outside John appeared again, and extended a hand.

“Here, give me him. You go and get what you need.”

“Thank you, John.”

Passing your ailing partner to John, you made your way upstairs and went to locate something that would catch Tommy’s sick. You found a bin under his sink and placed it beside the bed, rummaging around for something that he could wear since he was covered in his own stomach contents. John appeared with Tommy and he let him sit on the bed, giving him a gentle pat on the cheek as all the boys did.

“Get better, brother.”

John was gone and Tommy looked up to you, sighing.

“I’m okay, it’s just-“

“- a spell. I heard. Arms up.”

With your help you managed to rid him of his soiled work shirt and slacks, leaving him in his underwear. You reached for the sleep shirt and pants, Tommy slipping them on while you took his soiled clothing to the staircase.

“Pol?”

“Chuck ‘em down love, let me take care of it,” she called, appearing downstairs. You dropped the clothes and she caught them, walking away. There was a groan and your head turned to Tommy, curled up on his bed. His face was a pasty colour and you knelt by the bed, offering him the sick bucket.

“If you need to, it’s probably best you let it out,” your tone was sympathetic, and his eyes met yours.

“Not yet. Soon; but not now.”

So you climbed over him to be against the wall, wrapping our arms around his waist as you buried your head into his back. You were careful to avoid that one scar on his shoulder as you pressed a kiss to his shirt, heaving a sigh.

“You should try and get some rest before it gets any worse.”

The sound of retching disturbed your comfortable nap and you lifted your head to find Tommy’s head over the side of the bed, gagging. His back muscles tensed, and you reached out just enough to ensure he didn’t roll off the bed when he dove for the bucket.

“Okay Tommy, I’ve got you.”

“Godammit,” he cursed, hiccupping before a mouthful spilled from his lips. The stench turned your stomach, but the worry for your partner counterbalanced it. Tommy was never a big eater; he preferred cigarettes, booze, and sex as a diet. When he got sick he tended to bring up a liquid mess, until he was dry heaving nothing but air.

As per usual it oozed out rather than gushed and you reached over to pick up the bucket, holding it under his chin as you made him sit up.

“You’re okay.”

His throat tightened, before another liquid mess, yellow in colour, emptied into the bucket. Your hand went to the back of his neck and you scratched at his hair gently, offering a source of comfort from nausea. Tommy gripped your thigh, grip tightening to borderline painful. You resorted to letting him clutch and groan, and when he felt he was done he leaned back against your shoulder.

“I’ll just empty this out. Wipe your mouth, and I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Whiskey would be preferable,” Tommy called as you climbed off the bed, taking the bucket with you. You turned in the doorway, meeting his look with an eye-roll.

“I was thinking of water. Whiskey just means you’re drunk and sick.”

“The only way to be sick,” Tommy replied with his usual smile that you knew meant he wanted whiskey. You huffed.

“Nice try, Thomas. Water it shall be.”

When you returned Tommy had curled on his side, holding his stomach. When he realised you were there he sent you a grimace, resting his head back against his pillow. You knelt down beside him, slipping the mercury thermometer into his mouth as you poured him a cup of water. You ran a hand through his hair as he tried to sip at it, his grimace worsening at the feeling of the unfamiliar liquid in his stomach. Tommy needed to drink more water; he’d fainted too many times from dehydration yet he still preferred a stiff whiskey over a cup of water any day. When he’d had enough you encouraged him to rinse and spit into the bucket, placing it back on the ground. When Tommy lit a cigarette you raised an eyebrow and he handed it to you, huffing.

“There’s no pleasing you, [y/n].”

“You shouldn’t be smoking, not when you’re ill.”

You took a drag, slipping the cigarette back between his lips. Tommy Shelby had the perfect smoking lips; shaped by the gods above, upper lip curved just enough while his bottom lip dipped enough to offer the cigarette to sit comfortably. Full enough to hold shape even with it between his teeth. While he smoked you climbed back on to the other side of the bed, surprised when he rested his head on your shoulder. His eyes closed, his long eyelashes rested against his cheekbones and you felt his forehead again.

“That fever’s still there… maybe we could try a cool compress…”

Tommy hummed, but neither of you moved. You gently stroked his hair, sighing.

“You should rest, Tommy,” you murmured.

“I would be if you stopped talking,” he shot back, snotty in his fevered state. You gave him a squeeze, dropping a kiss on his head.

“Then I’ll stop.”

Arthur had dropped off the newspaper while the two of you had been asleep and you picked it up to entertain yourself while Tommy slept. His snoring, usually irritating, helped to reassure you he was going to be okay.

“[y/n]; how is he?”

Polly knelt by Tommy’s head, feeling him for the fever both of you knew was there. You sighed, tossing the newspaper to the side.

“I think he’ll be on the mend by nightfall, but it would be best to keep everything quiet tonight.”

“Absolutely; I’ll do my best to keep the peace.”

Polly reached over and, for the first time in front of you, showed tenderness toward her nephew. She kissed his forehead, running her thumb over his cheek before straightening.

“You watch him, [y/n]; Thomas Shelby is a tough one to crack but there’s no going back once he’s attached.”

She went to leave the room, pausing at the bucket on the ground.

“He hasn’t been sick again?” She asked. You shook your head, and she furrowed her brows.

“Interesting. You should come downstairs, [y/n]; you’re welcome to join us for tea.”

“Oh, no that’s okay Pol. He may wake up and need my help.”

“You’re no help to him if you’re exhausted yourself. Come down for a moment and get away from the sick stench. If you’re worried I can send Ada up until you’re finished.”

“You’ve convinced me. Don’t bother Ada; I’ll just be quick.”

Polly smiled, gesturing to downstairs.

“Come on then.”

The soup Pol had concocted hit the spot, and you spent the entirety of dinner helping Finn with his homework. You had to admit that you had a soft spot for Finn; the boy was barely eleven yet left to his own devices a majority of the time. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, especially not his, but when everyone was home he desired attention. Arthur tended to be the roughest toward him, while Ada loved on him (being the closest in age) and Tommy had a soft spot for him (he called it sibling guilt). John seemed to be fairly neutral, and Pol treated him as though he were her firstborn, despite the knowledge that she’d had two children prior. After tea you helped Ada tidy the kitchen and then filled a small mug with soup, taking it upstairs right as Arthur and John began to roughhouse in front of the fireplace. You laughed when you heard Polly begin to scold, gently closing Tommy’s bedroom door so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

So much for peace and quiet.

“Tommy, love. Sit up; I have something that might help you feel better.”

“The retching is just awful, [y/n], I feel like my insides are trying to escape.”

“Tom stop being dramatic; you’re ill, and retching means your throat is sore therefore it is slightly inflamed.”

He huffed, shifting to sit upright. You handed him the mug of soup, followed with a teaspoon Ada had dutifully cleaned before passing to you. Tommy grimaced, and when he turned his nose up at the soup you hit him on the thigh.

“Your aunt didn’t have to make you your own soup with fresh ingredients but she did. Be grateful.”

“I am, [y/n], it’s just…”

“What is it?”

Tommy blushed, eyes going to his lap, and you took the cup from him when the colour from his face began to drain. The second the cup was gone from under his nose he began to regain the feverish glow in his cheeks, and he turned to you.

“This isn’t something I’ve told someone before…” he admitted, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Tommy, the soup is meat-free-“

“-I get really sensitive to smells when I’m ill.”

You pulled back, silent for a moment. Tommy sighed, pushing lightly at your shoulder.

“You should go downstairs, love, be with the family-“

“-you think the smell of the soup is making you feel sick?”

“I said go downstairs [y/n].”

Tommy had shifted away from you, closer to the wall his bed was pushed up against, and he crossed his arms. His posture was guarded and you reached to touch his arm.

“Tom. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was making fun of you. I just wasn’t expecting that. We can get you something else if you’d prefer? I’m sure Pol has something for you to eat; perhaps a chunk of bread will provide some sustenance.”

You got off the bed, prepared to go back downstairs when Tommy caught your sleeve.

“[y/n]. Thank you, you’re- you’re the only one I trust with this. It seems… “

“It does seem a little weak, yes, but if that’s what you’ve been dealt then it’s something we can work with. We’re partners, Tommy; your issues are my issues now.”

“You too, love,” he murmured as he lay back down. You headed downstairs, gently closing the door again.

“What, he’s too fussy for soup?”

You winced from your position in the corner of the kitchen. Polly’s voice was harsh and judgemental, and you knew Tommy wouldn’t want her to know about his little… issue. You spun around to face her, sending her a gentle smile.

“He requested for some bread, Pol; to help soak it up. The bread will help so it’s not pure liquid.”

Pol gestured to one of the cupboards in the corner you were standing in, turning for the living room.

“Top shelf.”

She was gone, and you reached into the cupboard. Sure enough, the bread bin was there and you pulled off a chunk before tucking it away and hurrying back up the stairs.

Tommy was almost asleep despite the cigarette in his mouth, and you eased down on to the bed as gently as you could, plucking it from his lips. He awoke, staring you down.

“You’ve got guts, [y/n],” he murmured, and you rolled your eyes, holding up the bread.

“Eat this and be quiet,” you shot back, shoving it toward him. Tommy did as told, chewing quietly for a moment while you fluttered around the room picking up things and tidying the cupboard. When he was finished he set the cup aside, resting his hands on his stomach.

“Pol does make a great soup,” he murmured, and you turned to him with a smile.

“She does; thank her when you’re better.”

“Of course. I have a request for you now, though.”

“If it’s rubbing your feet, Thomas Shelby, you can bet I’ll be spending the rest of tonight downstairs and you can sulk on your own,” you scolded. His eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were dark and he shook his head.

“I was wondering if you could help… help with a bath? I- I’m vile from the events of today; all I can smell is sick.”

You frowned, stopping at his bedside to feel his fever.

“I believe it’s gone down but we shouldn’t make the bathwater too hot just in case it spikes again. Let me talk to your brothers; perhaps they can bring us some water.”

“Thanks, love,” Tommy murmured against your stomach where he’d buried his head.

“Easy now, steady, gently…”

“It’s too cold [y/n].”

You almost took the opportunity to smack Tommy up the back of his head with that comment, nodding thanks to his brothers.

“You can go now.”

They didn’t need to be told twice; John and Arthur disappeared down the stairs the second you dismissed them, apparently scarred. The water had been heated quickly and they’d helped you get Tommy into the bathtub, eyes averting from the situation.

“Can’t believe you made them fetch water in this cold night air,” Tommy murmured as you poured water down his back.

“Tom; you asked for a bath and I delivered. Stop your complaining.”

He tilted his head back and you dampened his hair, brushing it back with your fingers.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“You’re still burning up,” you murmured as you began to work on his shoulders, rubbing the soap down his back and over his pecs. Tommy leaned back, eyes closed, as he let you care for him. He pressed a kiss to your wrist when it was close, and looked up with his piercing blue eyes.

“I appreciate everything you do for me. I hope you know that,” he spoke. You snorted, and this time you did whack him- on the shoulder. He deserved a little mercy for being sick.

“Thomas Shelby, stop this sensual nonsense. It’s the fever talking.”

“You know what else is talking?” Tommy murmured as he let you cradle his head. You hummed, and he let out a breath into your palm.

“My fucking guts. I felt more like me for a moment there, but it’s replaced by the sick feeling.”

“Hold on; let me get the bucket.”

You got up from next to the bath to reach for the bucket, moving quickly to hold it under Tommy’s chin. He cleared his throat multiple times, trying to convince his contents to stay inside, but it was obvious he was failing. His cheeks heated, and he leaned his head back against the bath as he panted. You rubbed his back, massaging the knots in his neck occasionally.

“Slow Tom, easy. Close your eyes if you’re dizzy.”

“You said this would help,” he murmured as he followed your instructions. A part of you wanted to savour the moment- Tommy Shelby being vulnerable was a rarity- however, with the vulnerability came nausea and his gag reflex that seemed constantly unsettled. It didn’t seem fair to him to revel in the moment of peace between the two of you, and you pulled your sleeves up to your elbows.

“C’mere, Tommy, that’s it. Keep it tucked to your chin. I’ve got the towel, careful now.”

As you helped Tommy out of the bath you wrapped the towel around his waist, tying it off in a knot before reaching for Finn’s towel- the only other dry towel in the house, according to Polly. Sitting Tommy on a chair you wrapped the extra towel over his shoulders, rubbing to keep him warm. Due to his temperature you’d put out the fire in his room, but for a moment you were almost tempted to light it to help him dry off.

“Going to- going to- oh god I’m going to be sick.”

His breath hitched, throat tensed up, and you could almost see the bile rising from his throat, and panic settled into his face. He attempted to bury himself in the bucket, leaning on the rim with his forehead. A hiccup, a cough, and he was bringing up another gooey mess- a little more solid this time compared to previous times, and you frowned.

“It’s okay love, you’re alright.”

When he came up for air his head collided with your chest and you kissed his hair, wiping a little sick off his lips and chin with a wet washcloth.

“Come on then, let’s get you back into bed for the night. I’ll check on Finn before I go to sleep.”

For as long as you had been living with Tommy- possibly even longer- he’d had the habit of going to check on his younger siblings at night. When Ada moved out, he still continued to check his brothers before he went to bed. When he was too tired you or Arthur carried out the tradition. Finn had come to realise what Tommy did, and he sometimes tried to stay up long enough to talk to his older brother when he came in. That night Tommy nodded, and let you help him redress into the same pyjamas since they were clean.

A knock on John’s bedroom door told you he was… occupied, so you moved to Finn’s room. Knocking first, just in case he was still in the middle of changing, you gently pushed the door open to darkness. Finn was sound asleep in bed, Tommy’s old nightshirt hanging off his smaller frame. His blanket was pushed to the end of the bed despite the cold night and you made your way over to cover him, tucking him in with expertise that came from being the eldest child of eleven. Just as you finished he stirred, touching your hand.

“Tommy? Is that you?” He murmured, and you sighed as you knelt down.

“It’s just me, Finn; [y/n]. You looked cold.”

“Oh… thanks [y/n].”

He rolled over, straight back to sleep, and you doubted he’d remember this in the morning. You stood, straightening out your back, and made the trek back to yours and Tommy’s room.

Tommy was finally asleep; in a deep sleep, one that made you want to leave the room and sleep in Ada’s old bed so he could get some rest. Despite being in a heavy sleep, Tommy would still wake at the slightest of sounds, and you were careful to tiptoe into bed with him. You checked his temperature, heaving a breath at the fact it felt like it was going down, and crawled under the sheets to cover him too. When you lay down, his body shifted toward yours subconsciously and you rested your head beside his arm; if he felt better, he would wrap himself around you while you slept.

“I got you, Tommy,” you murmured, gently patting his chest. He yawned, face peaceful as he slept. You smiled, closing your eyes.

It wouldn’t take long before Tommy was up again, fighting someone and fixing horse races.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly what fandoms do I NOT write for these days.  
> Also; forever unemployed. Lmao small town Australia doesn't like sharing jobs tbh.  
> Another note; added to 'The Peaky Files' because it's the Peaky Blinders, and it's a collection of works, and- Peaky? You know how much fun I have with that word?


End file.
